By Jennifer Mallin
There is no friendship, no love, like that of the parent for the child.
~Henry Ward Beecher
"Mom, where's my white jean skirt!?"
My daughter's voice rose to a timbre more befitting a house fire than a lost piece of clothing.
"Mom, if I can't find that, I'm just not going to school!"
It was the beginning of her thirteenth spring, and it was at that moment that I realized I was no longer the mother of a preteen. I was officially the mother of a teenager.
"Mom, I hate this breakfast." (The same one she happily ate yesterday.) "You don't even know what I eat! Are you actually wearing, (eating, doing, saying) that?" And the worst one of all because I'd said the exact same thing to my mother: "Don't embarrass me!" (Finger pointing included.)
At times she was as clingy as a toddler, but most of the time she was pushing me away. Everything had become a struggle. Somehow, I thought teenagerdom would pass me by, that I was immune to it. My daughter and I have always been extraordinarily close. I was proud of the fact that I was known as the "cool mom." We could just look at each other and burst out laughing. We would sail along like sisters, secure in our sacred bond and secret language.
Complicating matters further was that I was a stay-at-home mom who suddenly developed a hobby that consumed more and more of my time. "You're always at the art supply store. Another art class -- didn't you just take one!?"
I felt that we were both striking out on our own but in opposite directions.
Packing for camp that summer was a nightmare. More clothes lay crumpled on the floor than in her giant duffel. We stood facing each other in a tense standoff.
"It's like we're not even friends anymore. It's like we're enemies," she yelled.
Later that night I sat on the bathroom floor, admonishing myself to try and do some yogic breathing.
"She's just a teenager," I repeated to myself like a mantra, through tears of hurt and frustration. I remembered her as a baby afraid to let go of me; holding onto my long hair like a talisman. But, it didn't still the ache in my heart.
I dropped her off at the camp bus that summer. We hugged each other hard, and I watched as she boarded the bus. Every other summer she would pop her head out and cheekily salute me with a kiss. This year she took her seat without a glance back.
I spent my summer painting, writing, and missing my daughter. I missed her and I missed the idea of her. I hoped our time apart would be somehow a time of healing.
Our last phone call before camp ended was a week before she was due home.
"Mom, will you pick me up?"
"Now?" I asked.
"No, at the end of camp."
"Don't you want to take the bus with your friends?"
I was calculating the driving time; nine hours in one day. Time I could be painting or catching up on the endless list of things that I always seem to be behind on.
"We could spend some time together," she pleaded.
I knew that she was reaching out to me.
"Yes," I said, "of course."
She swung her long legs into the car. She was silent and slumped dejectedly in her seat. She twirled her friendship bracelet, took out her camera, and began scrolling through her pictures.
"I wish I were back in camp," she announced. "I'm camp sick."
We were driving along beautiful, winding, country roads in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I didn't know what to say, so I just drove, trying to puzzle out what was ineffable -- a loss I could not name.
Instead of feeling hurt and angry, I looked inside myself for something that I could give her, a gift that would somehow transform us both.
That summer day, we ate ice cream for lunch, sitting on the roof of the car, our feet dangling in the sunroof, ice cream melting down our chins.
We photographed barns, cows, silos and improbably a pirate ship that we imagined some ambitious parent had built -- sailing on the vast green sea of a cow pasture.
We traveled on dirt roads that did not have names and led to nowhere.
We held hands and walked by the banks of a sun-dappled stream.
We talked about all the art we would make and all the poetry we would write.
And we laughed again, a sound precious to my ears.
We pulled onto our moonlit, tree-lined road late. I drove slowly, reluctant for the magical day to end. My daughter was sleeping, her beautiful profile limned in moonlight.
There at the side of the road, I noticed a doe with a fawn trailing behind, lazily eating the overgrown summer grass. I pulled the car beside them slowly, sure that they would see us and bolt. They continued to eat and gaze at us unconcerned. I opened the car window, my daughter stirred and I heard her intake of breath as she opened her eyes.
We stared into the eyes of our own reflections and smiled knowingly.
I knew then that the greatest gift that I had to give my daughter was my full attention.
In the midst of our busy, crazy lives, to give someone we love our undivided attention says: "You are what matters to me in all the world. Right here, right now."
My daughter reached for my hand in that moment.
"I love you," she whispered.
"I love you, too," I whispered back.
And we continued on the road home.
http://www.chickensoup.com
There is no friendship, no love, like that of the parent for the child.
~Henry Ward Beecher
"Mom, where's my white jean skirt!?"
My daughter's voice rose to a timbre more befitting a house fire than a lost piece of clothing.
"Mom, if I can't find that, I'm just not going to school!"
It was the beginning of her thirteenth spring, and it was at that moment that I realized I was no longer the mother of a preteen. I was officially the mother of a teenager.
"Mom, I hate this breakfast." (The same one she happily ate yesterday.) "You don't even know what I eat! Are you actually wearing, (eating, doing, saying) that?" And the worst one of all because I'd said the exact same thing to my mother: "Don't embarrass me!" (Finger pointing included.)
At times she was as clingy as a toddler, but most of the time she was pushing me away. Everything had become a struggle. Somehow, I thought teenagerdom would pass me by, that I was immune to it. My daughter and I have always been extraordinarily close. I was proud of the fact that I was known as the "cool mom." We could just look at each other and burst out laughing. We would sail along like sisters, secure in our sacred bond and secret language.
Complicating matters further was that I was a stay-at-home mom who suddenly developed a hobby that consumed more and more of my time. "You're always at the art supply store. Another art class -- didn't you just take one!?"
I felt that we were both striking out on our own but in opposite directions.
Packing for camp that summer was a nightmare. More clothes lay crumpled on the floor than in her giant duffel. We stood facing each other in a tense standoff.
"It's like we're not even friends anymore. It's like we're enemies," she yelled.
Later that night I sat on the bathroom floor, admonishing myself to try and do some yogic breathing.
"She's just a teenager," I repeated to myself like a mantra, through tears of hurt and frustration. I remembered her as a baby afraid to let go of me; holding onto my long hair like a talisman. But, it didn't still the ache in my heart.
I dropped her off at the camp bus that summer. We hugged each other hard, and I watched as she boarded the bus. Every other summer she would pop her head out and cheekily salute me with a kiss. This year she took her seat without a glance back.
I spent my summer painting, writing, and missing my daughter. I missed her and I missed the idea of her. I hoped our time apart would be somehow a time of healing.
Our last phone call before camp ended was a week before she was due home.
"Mom, will you pick me up?"
"Now?" I asked.
"No, at the end of camp."
"Don't you want to take the bus with your friends?"
I was calculating the driving time; nine hours in one day. Time I could be painting or catching up on the endless list of things that I always seem to be behind on.
"We could spend some time together," she pleaded.
I knew that she was reaching out to me.
"Yes," I said, "of course."
She swung her long legs into the car. She was silent and slumped dejectedly in her seat. She twirled her friendship bracelet, took out her camera, and began scrolling through her pictures.
"I wish I were back in camp," she announced. "I'm camp sick."
We were driving along beautiful, winding, country roads in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I didn't know what to say, so I just drove, trying to puzzle out what was ineffable -- a loss I could not name.
Instead of feeling hurt and angry, I looked inside myself for something that I could give her, a gift that would somehow transform us both.
That summer day, we ate ice cream for lunch, sitting on the roof of the car, our feet dangling in the sunroof, ice cream melting down our chins.
We photographed barns, cows, silos and improbably a pirate ship that we imagined some ambitious parent had built -- sailing on the vast green sea of a cow pasture.
We traveled on dirt roads that did not have names and led to nowhere.
We held hands and walked by the banks of a sun-dappled stream.
We talked about all the art we would make and all the poetry we would write.
And we laughed again, a sound precious to my ears.
We pulled onto our moonlit, tree-lined road late. I drove slowly, reluctant for the magical day to end. My daughter was sleeping, her beautiful profile limned in moonlight.
There at the side of the road, I noticed a doe with a fawn trailing behind, lazily eating the overgrown summer grass. I pulled the car beside them slowly, sure that they would see us and bolt. They continued to eat and gaze at us unconcerned. I opened the car window, my daughter stirred and I heard her intake of breath as she opened her eyes.
We stared into the eyes of our own reflections and smiled knowingly.
I knew then that the greatest gift that I had to give my daughter was my full attention.
In the midst of our busy, crazy lives, to give someone we love our undivided attention says: "You are what matters to me in all the world. Right here, right now."
My daughter reached for my hand in that moment.
"I love you," she whispered.
"I love you, too," I whispered back.
And we continued on the road home.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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